


Divisions

by Exactlywhat



Category: Transformers (Bay Movies), Transformers - All Media Types, Transformers Generation One
Genre: Alternate Universe, F/M, M/M, Multi
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-03-27
Updated: 2013-09-19
Packaged: 2017-12-06 16:43:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 5,482
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/737873
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Exactlywhat/pseuds/Exactlywhat
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A story idea I've been tossing around for some time now. I started writing it for a tf-speedwriting prompt this week, and decided it was finally time for me to actually start writing it for real.<br/>Link to the speedwriting fill is <a href="http://exactly-what.livejournal.com/24675.html#cutid2">here</a></p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Onlining

**Author's Note:**

> It's a bit of a strange bunny, but I hope you enjoy!

Divisions

He came online to a voice. Quiet, authoritative. 

~ PR0.W13.R. This is Medic Fastline. Can you run a diagnostic?~

The newly onlined being, PR0.W13.R, hesitated, then searched for the protocols. They were easily found, popping up on something he knew was his HUD as soon as he thought of them. A moment later, he was feeding the information they were responding with to the mech hooked up to him. 

~Good... Good. Everything looks like it's in order. Here's a list of protocols for interacting with mechs outside your processor.~ a datafile was quickly downloaded into his processor, and he started a new thought-thread to open it an analyze it. 

~I'm going to disconnect, now. There are some comm links in that packet I just sent you. They're the links to all the Enforcers in this station. Contact them if you have any questions.~

A moment later the presence was gone, and PR0.W13.R was alone. 

Then the thought-thread that had analyzed the packet pinged back with results, and he realized he wasn't as alone as he had thought. Sensors fed him information... there were mechs inside him? Or he was part of something that they were inside?

Hesitantly, he activated one of the protocols, and was assaulted with something... an image? Yes. From the cameras through the... the building. Most were black and white, sitting stiffly at monitors – and he belatedly realized he could _see_ what they were doing on the monitors. Feel the processes they were running. 

Another system activated, and he could... hear? Yes, that was it. Microphones in the monitors and attached to the cameras. For a moment, he heard, but didn't understand. Then language protocols hummed to life. 

“-stationary. Other than that, he's much like any other preprogram. I'd suggest leaving him for a day or so to let his spark integrate, but... yeah.”

“I see. Thank you, Fastline.”

The first mech, Fastline, one of the few that wasn't black and white, nodded, face contorting. A small part of the language protocol whirred to life. It was a smile, indicating that he was happy or content. “No problem, Chief.”

The medic exchanged a few more words with the “chief” before he left, and PR0.W13.R was left watching the black and white mechs work. 

Then, slowly, they started leaving. One by one. The chief left first, then the others, slowly trickling away. One mech entered. He sat down at one of the side monitors, waving to the last mech to leave, then settled in. 

PR0.W13.R watched the mech, who was gazing intently around the room with sharp, red optics, and pulled up the datafiles on the Enforcer he had stored in his memory banks.

Enforcer J422. Commissioned ten vorns ago. Had an almost perfect service record. Had been considered for Special Operations, but discarded because he was a preprog. 

“Hey,” a deep voice said, barely startling the new mech. _Osa,_ something in his programming whispered, and he dedicated a thought-thread to that. 

Another protocol option popped up, one he had not used yet. Speaking. He could speak? After a klik of debate, he activated the protocol. “Greetings, Enforcer J422. I am PR0.W13.R”

The thought-thread devoted to researching “osa” pinged back. Osa; a sparked computer. A stationary mech, part of a system. A frameless mind. 

“Jazz, mech,” the Enforcer said, and the thought-thread devoted to their conversation wondered at what, exactly, this mech was saying. What it meant. “Only the sparked mechs call me J422.”

Jazz? What was that? It made no sense. He had a designation. Why change it?

Deciding that it was safe to voice his confusion, PR0.W13.R spoke. “... Jazz? Why would you call yourself as such, Enforcer J4-... Jazz?”

The mech smiled, red optics glittering with something PR0.W13.R couldn't identify. “Because it's a mech name. A real one. I’m a mech. Not a drone. Drone's get numbers. Mechs get names.”

Well, that was hopelessly confusing and illogical. What was the difference? But some instinctive part of the osa knew that it wasn't something that J422 – no, Jazz. His name was Jazz, no matter how little sense it made – could explain. 

So he simply said, “I... understand?” even if he didn't. 

The black and white shook his head, red optics dim. PR0.W13.R wondered if he was low on energon. “No ya don't. Not yet, You will, though, when your spark starts to tweak coding. When your emotions start to develop. Trust me.”

And, for some strange reason, PR0.W13.R did.


	2. Processors

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bunnies bite hard. -_-

Chapter 2: Processors

PR0.W13.R easily fell into his function. He was an osa. He had been built to organize, to watch, to be aware. He never slept. His processors, unlike those of the walking-sparks, could defrag one portion at a time. 

He kept watch through the security cameras throughout Lower Polyhex. He knew everything that was going on, all the time. And unlike any of the walking-sparks, he could understand it, could comprehend it, could process it. All of it.

After a decaorn online, he was told by the Chief, a free-sparked (or so J422 called him) Enforcer and the head of the District 14 Enforcer's Station where PR0.W13.R “lived” that there would be a drug bust soon. 

The Chief, he had found, considered him little more than an AI. An intelligent AI, to be sure, but he did not consider him a real mech. 

PR0.W13.R felt vaguely like he should have been offended at the idea of being treated like a drone, but it was only a distant, fuzzy feeling. 

So, when he was curious, he would go to J422. Jazz. 

He had all the comm links to all of the Enforcers who worked at the precinct, but, more than that, he had the access codes to the preprogrammed Enforcers. He could establish a link whether they wanted him to or not. 

J422 had told him on that first night that it was incredibly rude to do so, though. Even though PR0.W13.R did not completely understand the idea of “rude,” he did as J422 suggested, and pinged a request and allowed the Enforcer to accept or deny it as he wished. 

Though J422 had never denied it in the short time PR0.W13.R had been online. 

::Enforcer J422.::

::Just Jazz, mech. Please.::

::I have a question.:: 

::... Okay. Go ahead,:: J422 prompted when PR0.W13.R took a long moment to respond. 

::What is required of me next orn?:: PR0.W13.R had the programming of an Enforcer, he knew what a drug bust was, but no one had ever told him what he was doing, exactly.

::For the bust?::

::Yes,:: PR0.W13.R replied uneasily, wishing there was a more... _official_ way of referring to the drug bust. 

::Well, you're supposed to direct it. You know, tell us where to go, when to move, where the bad guys are... That sort of thing.::

::That is all?:: the osa asked, surprised. He could do that with barely one thought-thread. Maybe two, if things started getting complicated, but... it would be easy. 

::Yeah, mech. You're our guide. See, you can see everything – you know, you'll be hooked up to all'a us preprograms, one of us, probably me, will be able to hack into the cameras in that building and get you hooked up to 'em, and you'll... well, you'll see it all. We only see what our optics and sensors tell us.::

::I do understand that, but... it still seems as though it will be rather... easy.::

Jazz smiled up at the camera in the corner of the barracks, where he was currently lying on his berth. ::Maybe for you, what with your big processors, but... any one of us? We'd need multiple people doing it. Our processors aren't as good as yours, PR. It's not as easy for us as it is for you.::

PR0.W13.R puzzled at that for a moment (while another thought-thread turned over the shortening of his designation, which was quickly determined to be simply a more efficient way of indicating himself, though it still made him want to twitch), looking up the specifications for the average preprogrammed mech. Then he marveled at it for a moment. Their processors were so... small! So slow. So... narrow. At the very most, they could have something like ten thought-threads running at a time, though they usually retained only two or three at a time. 

So few! PR0.W13.R himself, at minimum, always had at least twenty going! Most of them were what he had begun to classify as background threads, thought processes and subroutines that ran mostly on their own, monitoring security feeds, the emergency comm system, the Enforcers' public comms, the activity inside the Enforcer's Station, and even an information exchange between himself and another osa, an older one from a station a couple districts over. 

And he wasn't even straining himself! 

::You...::

::Yeah. We don't think like you, PR.:: It was said with a hint of humor, and PR0.W13.R could see the tiny smile twitching on J422's face. A smirk, perhaps? Indicating mischievous intent? ::But that's what we're sparked with, and we're happy with it.::

::I...::

::Don't worry about it right now. Any other questions?::

::Negative.::

::Alright then. Anything you wanna talk about?::

Talk about? About what? His question was answered. Their business had been concluded. ::Negative.::

For a moment, J422 looked... sad?, his optics dimming (not, PR0.W13.R now knew, from a lack of energon), his shoulders slumping gently. Then he perked up again, shooting a thoughtful, rather wry glance at the camera. ::Okay, then. Let me know if you think of anything else.::

::Understood.::

::PR, it wasn't an order.::

::... Understood.::

J422 vented, and PR0.W13.R couldn't help but feel that there was something he didn't – couldn't – understand.


	3. Chapter 3: After

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just a short chapter to tide all'a y'all over until the bunny comes back.

Chapter 3: After

PR0.W13.R watched as J422 collapsed on his berth. He understood, sort of. The drug bust had gone well. Nothing had gone amiss, the dealers were all in custody, and the drugs were currently in the process of being destroyed. 

But, as he understood these things, it had been exhausting for the walking-sparks. They had worked hard. 

::Enforcer J422?::

::Mm... Yeah, PR?:: the mech asked drowsily, rolling over and glancing up at the camera. The room was dark, the fifteen other mechs who stayed in the same room already recharging. 

::I... wish to understand something.::

::Okay,:: Jazz said, well aware by now that the osa needed confirmation that it was fine to speak his mind, just as any new preprogrammed mech did. ::Go ahead.::

::Why do mechs partake of these drugs? It is completely illogical, detrimental to their health and finances, and results in only suffering. Why do people do it?::

::Mm,:: J422 hummed again, rolling over. ::I'm not entirely sure, but... I think it's mainly because they need a way to cope. Well, the people we busted today, at least. They hate their lives, feel like there's no hope, or just feel lost and alone, and they turn to drugs, stimulants, and high-grade to forget for a while. The other reason would be boredom, but that's more of a problem in the upper districts. You won't find that down here.::

::I see,:: PR0.W13.R said, turning a couple thought-threads to examining that answer. 

::PR, don't dwell on it too much. Why they do it doesn't matter for us. We just have to stop them and hand them over to the guys who do know that stuff and can fix it.::

::It still seems as though more could be done.::

The urge to help was a strange one. He couldn't explain it. Was this one of those emotions J422 had been talking about? 

::I know, PR. But the Enforcers down here don't have the credits or power to do anything more. We just do what we can with what we get, and keep hoping that it's enough.::

::That seems... rather...::

::Hopeless? Yeah. Most things down here are. Now, I’ve gotta recharge... It's been a long orn. Can we talk more tomorrow, when I’m on patrol?::

::Will I not distract you?::

A wry chuckle. ::No, you won't. I may not be as advanced as you, but I can talk and keep an optic open at the same time.::

::Very well. Next orn, then, Enforcer Jazz.::

::Good night, PR.::


	4. Chapter 4: Music

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just a little chapter. Bunny bit, so... :)

Chapter 4: Music 

::I've got a thief making a run for it!:: one of the Enforcers called in on the public/private comm system PR0.W13.R had set up for his Enforcer Station. 

::Location?:: PR0.W13.R automatically responded, already searching on cameras for the chase as another though-thread chased down on-duty Enforcers. 

::C-Level, Route 215DA. Runner's a bit ahead of me.::

::Received. Alert me if his path changes,:: PR0.W13.R ordered, though by that time, he had access to all street cameras, and was able to see the fleeing mech. 

::Understood,:: the Enforcer commed back, then was quiet as he continued chasing the thief. Other Enforcers clamored over other links, some rushing to aid in the pursuit, others rushing to other problem areas, some answering calls on the Emergency Comms while simultaneously telling their fellows where things were happening. 

It was, in short, an average day in the Polyhex District 14 Enforcer's Station. They were on one of the lower levels of the city, one of the levels where darkness and loss and poverty filled every nook and cranny. They were always busy trying to keep up with the thieves, addicts, thugs, other such scoundrels and miscreants, and the occasional murder or rape. 

And PR0.W13.R found that, even surrounded with so much chaos and darkness, he was happy. Well, his coding said he was happy. Content, maybe, in his position, doing what he was made to do.

But every orn, there was more. He was more aware of what drove mechs, of what made them _mechs_ , what made them _alive_.

Slowly, the orn wound to a close. Mechs were put into the little holding cells in the lower level of the station. Preprogs went to the dorms, and sparked mechs went to their homes, and J422 came to the station to perform his nightly duty shift. 

The Enforcer slouched into a chair, smiled at a camera, then simply sat back. For a long time, they stayed in comfortable silence. 

Then, J422 started humming. 

For a moment, PR0.W13.R listened silently. Then, he interrupted. “Enforcer J422, what are you doing?”

“Hm?” the Enforcer hummed, stopping his own song.

“That sound. What are you doing?” It sounded like some of the sounds that emitted from the clubs on the edge of his district, where over-charged mechs often wandered away from. 

“I'm humming. Making music.”

“Music?”

J422 smiled. “Yeah. Rhythm, sound. Makes you wanna move, dance.”

PR0.W13.R took a moment to think on that. “I do not understand.”

The Enforcer shook his helm. “It's a feeling. A beat. Sound to go with your spark.”

Another moment was spent thinking that over, and once again, PR0.W13.R was left confused. “I am afraid I still do not quite understand.”

J422 let out a long vent. “Guess you don't need to. But I like it... It's fun to sing, hum, and fun to listen to.”

Once again, the Enforcer started humming, and the osa allowed himself to just listen. He was surprised to realize, a few moments into the song, that there were mathematical formulas in the tones and notes. And in the lilting trills and jumps from octave to octave, there was a certain rhythm that flowed through him, through his audial sensors and spark...

J422 spent most of the night humming along to whatever song was running through his processor, and PR0.W13.R always had at least one thought-thread focused on the music.


	5. Numbers and Names

Chapter 5: Numbers and Names

PR0.W13.R was beginning to understand what J422 had meant when he had said mechs had names and drones had numbers. 

He saw the way mechs with numbers – his Enforcers – were often treated with disdain, treated like the non-sentient drones that cleaned the streets and performed other menial tasks. 

And it... it hurt. Or was starting to hurt, as he began to realize the differences that were imposed on his Enforcers, his family, by the society they were placed in. 

They were no different. J422... Jazz... he sang, like any other mech. He smiled, he laughed, he cried, he hurt... Yet, most treated him like an object. 

Or B4RR1, one of the oldest Enforcers at the station, who had retreated so far into himself, away from the segregation, that he was almost as cold and drone-like as everyone thought him to be. But occasionally, PR0.W13.R caught him smiling, or staring off into the distance... He was just as alive as any of them.

Then there was himself; he answered a lot of the comms to the station, and, for the most part, people just assumed he was an AI. It was beginning to... to hurt. That they thought so little of him. 

That brought him to the Chief. PR0.W13.R could see now that he was no different. The mech steadfastly continued calling the Enforcers by their numbers, no matter how many times they insisted that they had names. 

Even he could see that there was something wrong with the way things were set up, and he had only been alive for a groon.

Well, there was something he could do about it. He could use their names, and forget they ever had numbers. 

It might take some getting used to, but he could do it. 

He could also adopt his own name. But how to start? He didn't know the first thing about naming someone. 

A thought-thread gave him an answer a moment later, and, swiftly, he opened a comm line. 

::Jazz?:: he pinged. 

::Finally dropped the “Enforcer”?:: was the response. 

That was... slightly painful, actually. That it had taken him this long to realize that the titles weren't always necessary. ::I... I believe I understand, now,:: he said, knowing Jazz would understand what he meant.

::Cool. You chosen a name, yet?::

::I was hoping you would be able to help me with that.::

The camera trained on the Enforcer picked up his movements as he chuckled. ::Sure, mech. I'd love to help. Lessee... PR0.W13.R... Pr... Prowler? The glyphs are similarly shaped, like with my name.::

A thrill of amusement ran through the osa. ::You are suggesting that I take a name that signifies a thief that sneaks into others dwellings? However, you do have a point... Is “Prowl” sufficient?::

Jazz grinned up at the camera. ::Sure, mech. But I think I’ll keep calling you Prowler.::

That tangled up quite a few thought-threads for a moment. ::... Why?::

::Because that's what friends do. They call each other by nicknames.:: 

::Do they? Why? And how is that a nickname? It is longer than my chosen designation.:: Jazz was confounding in ways PR0.W-- no, Prowl, had never encountered before in anyone else! Never mind the fact he was only a groon old. 

The wide grin Jazz shot at the camera settled him somewhat; he may not understand, but he need only ask, and Jazz would explain. ::Because it's something private between us. Because it's got meaning. Because you'll know that whenever I call you by it that I care.::

::... I do not understand.::

::You don't need to, mech. Not yet. You'll learn. Trust me.::

And PR- Prowl knew, that, for now, trusting Jazz would be enough.


	6. Chapter 6: Request

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Short, I know, but... I haven't had much time for writing recently. But I got a bout of inspiration, and a bit of time, so... well, here are the results. :)
> 
> Thank you all for your patience.

Prowl intercepted the message before it made it to the chief’s inbox, as he did all incoming and outgoing mail. He did not read what he stopped; he only scanned it to ensure it was from who it said it was from and clean of viruses. 

This time it was different. The scan pinged back with strange results. It was clean, but it... wasn’t just for the chief. It was for him, too. 

His designation. Right there. 

PR0.W13.R. 

It was strange, to be sure, but he did not hesitate as he sent the message on to the chief’s inbox and opened it up to read for himself. 

_Chief Markside,_

_Due to the continuing efforts against the rebel forces and our current lack of forces, we are requiring the use of your osa, PR0.W13.R. As an osa cannot be moved in its sparked form, we will be transferring it into a mech frame._

_The frame is in its last stages of construction. My medics will be at your station in three orns to transfer his spark._

_Thank you for your kind compliance._

_From the Desk of Sentinel Prime_

Save for the background protocols that monitored the camera feeds, every single one of Prowl’s thought-threads came to a screeching halt. 

He was being... transferred? To a walking frame? But... How? He was an osa, through and through, sparked as one, taught as one, raised to think and feel as one. The very idea of being able to move was ridiculous, scandalous, and... 

Honestly, he found it horrendous. Osas were not made to walk. To move. They were created to think, to be, but not to move. 

Thought-threads started up again, two, then ten, then twenty, then thirty. All focused on this problem. A few scenarios were run through, some considering refusal, some considering outright rebelling against the Enforcers and the Prime, others... 

Others focused on complying. 

Calculations slowly ran their courses, probabilities were given, ideas scrubbed or approved. 

Slowly, Prowl came to a conclusion. 

There was nothing he could do. Unlike his mobile teammates, he could not run and hide. He could not fight back. There was nothing he could do. 

As much as he hated it, his decision was made. He went back to his normal functioning, if a bit slower and more reluctant than before, and resolved to discuss it with Jazz at the soonest possible time. 

.oOo.oOo.oOo.oOo.oOo.

“What’re you saying, mech?” the Enforcer demanded, red optics narrowed at the camera he was accustomed to looking at while conversing with the osa. 

“Sentinel Prime has requested that I be transferred to one of your walking frames so that I may aid the war effort. Or rather, the effort to prevent war.” The words held no inflection, the voice sounding much the same as it had when he had first come online. 

“Prowler, that makes no sense!” the black and white mech protested, clawed fingers digging into the armrests of his chair. 

“Actually, Jazz, it does,” Prowl said softly, his voice taking on a regretful tone. “I am an osa in a lower section of a poor city. I am... While I am of use, I... They do not see it that way. They believe you can function without me. And you can.”

“Mech,” Jazz said as he slumped down, optics dimming and moving away from the camera. “This is... I know we can, but... Primus, Prowler! We’ve... You’re part of the team!”

“I know that. But I am in no position to deny Sentinel Prime’s demands. The medics are coming in two orns time.”

The sound Jazz choked out made Prowl’s spark throb painfully. Partially a laugh, partially a hopeless sounding sob. “Prowler...”

There was only one thing the osa could force through his speakers. “I am sorry, Jazz.”


	7. Chapter 7: Small Steps

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yay! Bunnies! 
> 
> Don't get too used to rapid updates, though. This amount of time on my hands is... unusual.

Chapter 7: Small Steps

Jazz wasn't there when they did the transfer. Prowl made sure of it. It wasn't something he wanted his friend to see. It was painful enough even for him. He would never wish that pain on someone close to him. 

So Jazz was out on patrol, in a far sector of the city, when the Prime's medics came. Prowl watched them as they talked to the chief, then walked toward his main terminal. 

It was only when he saw the dull, dead frame on the hover-stretcher that he started to panic. 

He was leaving. _Leaving_. Probably for good. 

Where was Jazz? Why didn't he keep his friend here? Why-? He couldn't say goodbye! A comm was possible, but... that wasn't how he wanted their last talk to go. Not at all. 

So, instead, he opened a message and frantically wrote. And as he wrote, he realized. 

_Jazz,_

_I thank Primus for you. You taught me all I will ever need to know about truly living. I regret that I am unable to tell you this in person. I am sorry I cannot tell you goodbye one last time, for I know that I will be taken away as soon as the transfer is complete._

_However, my friend, my beloved (for I believe that, had I been in a walking frame from my sparking, we would have been much more than friends), I am able to give you one last thing before I am taken away. Attached is an image file, one taken with one of my cameras of my new frame, before they started the transfer. I pray that someday, sometime, somehow, we will meet again._

_All my love,_

_Prowler_

His spark chamber was moving, up, forward. Thought-threads were being forcefully shut down. Everything was fading, darkening, narrowing. 

He sent the message, and the last thing he was aware of was the confirmation signal. 

Then everything went dark and silent. 

.oOo.oOo.oOo.oOo.oOo.

He onlined slowly, systems checking in and clicking on one after another. 

It was the strangest boot up he'd ever experienced, mainly because, before, he had only set sections of himself into recharge at a time. He had never before in his existence been completely turned off. 

So onlining was eerily reminiscent of his first awakening, all those vorns ago. 

His audials flicked on with the barest hint of static, and voices became clearer. The sound was strange, though. He could hear perfectly well, but... there was something off. Something odd about the way he was hearing. 

His optics came on next, and that was even stranger. It wasn't a compound view, made up of hundreds of different cameras positioned all over Polyhex and the Enforcer's Station. It was simply the feed from two optical receptors, and, while they were very _good_ optics, able to see more than five times the spectrum as an average mech's optics, Prowl felt _blind_. 

Then more sensors came online. The sensors in his doorwings, his processor reported, and he felt a little less blind. He could sense where mechs were, sense their systems running, sense what was around him. But it was still different, odd, and he didn't really like it. 

“PR0.13W.R,” a voice called, and the osa – former osa – focused sharp optics on the speaker. It was a medic. That much was made plain by his red and white coloring. Ratchet, his processor supplied. “How are you feeling?”

Prowl took a moment to respond, carefully feeling his way through his vocalizer coding. “Strange,” he said after the pause. “Blind.”

Ratchet nodded. “That's understandable. Can you try moving for me?”

For a moment, Prowl simply blinked. Move? But... 

Oh. Right. He wasn't an osa anymore. He could... move.

As soon as he thought it, protocols sprang to life. He could _move_.

First, he twitched his fingers. It was so _alien_ , the feel of movement, of gears and pistons and tension lines shifting at his command, that he froze again. He tried to start up a thought-thread devoted to working out this solution, and... 

A new sort of panic started rising in him. His processor. He hadn't noticed before now, but... He... His processor... 

It was so _small_! So limited! He wasn't watching cameras anymore. He wasn't monitoring incoming data or outgoing data, wasn't in contact with neighboring osas, wasn't directing patrols, wasn't reading through reports, wasn't keeping tabs on reports from citizens or newscasters. 

He... he was so... it was so... He needed more!

His processor was shutting down. Cascading, tumbling. Data was piling up. Things were falling into each other and crashing together, and-

Everything was, once again, black. 

.oOo.oOo.oOo.oOo.oOo.

The first thing he noticed when he came back online was Ratchet's voice. 

“Let's try this again,” the medic was grumbling.

Prowl opened his optics again and stared up at the ceiling. Everything was just so _wrong_. His sight, his hearing, his sense of touch, even the way he thought. 

It was _wrong_

He wanted Jazz. 

“PR0.13W.R.” The sharp tone snapped him out of his thoughts. Then there was a quiet mutter. “There's gotta be something better to call you.”

“Prowl,” he answered immediately. “My designation is Prowl.”

The medic glanced at him strangely, then shook his helm. “Fine. Prowl. Errors?”

“None.”

“Want to try moving again?”

“Not really,” he said, but initiated the protocols again, and twitched his fingers. 

It still felt so strange, but it did not cause a cascade of misplaced data. Hesitantly, he tried moving other parts of his frame, little bits at a time. Fingers, hands, elbows, feet, legs. His doorwings created the strangest sensation as they brushed against the berth, but all it caused was a sharp twitch. 

“Alright, everything's looking good,” the medic said after a moment. “Let's try getting you vertical.”

The hands on his shoulders made him flinch, the touch of something else so alien and _wrong_ that he instinctively tried to get _away_ , but the medic didn't let go, and continued lifting the former osa. 

Sitting was even stranger than moving. So many little calculations running in the back of his processor, just for _sitting_. Just for keeping him balanced. Too much. Too much like his background thought-threads, but not similar enough.

Everything went black.

.oOo.oOo.oOo.oOo.oOo.

“I told Sentinel this was a bad idea, that an osa wouldn't be able to acclimatize to a mech frame, but did he listen? Of course not! Because I’m just _the medic_! What do I know?” 

A loud snort.

Prowl didn't want to open his optics. 

This wasn't real. Couldn't be. He was in some sort of stasis for some reason or other, and was experiencing one of those things Jazz called recharge fluxes. This wasn't happening. It _couldn't be_.

“PR- Prowl. I know you're online. Turn on your optics.”

Reluctantly, Prowl did as ordered and gazed up into the frustrated optics of the Prime's medic. 

Ratchet's expression immediately softened. “I'm not mad at you, youngling.”

“You are mad at Sentinel Prime.”

“Yes,” the medic snarled. “He shouldn't have taken you from your frame. I tried to explain. How your spark was made specifically for the stationary frame, how you were sparked for the work you did and the processors you ran, but... He was set. I am sorry for the part I played in-”

“Medic Ratchet, I understand that no fault is yours. Like myself, you were just carrying out the orders of a mech that cannot be stopped.” Prowl closed his optics again and ran a few deep drafts of air through his vents. “He is the very thing he proclaims to defend against,” the former osa murmured. “And we have both been called by him to serve exactly the thing we have sworn to fight.”

His optics opened again, and he looked back up to the medic. “I was not made for this frame, but I will learn, so that I am able to stop what is happening. I ask your assistance.”

Ratchet blinked, then grinned. “I like the way you think. Whatever it takes, eh?” he said, sticking out a red hand.

Prowl, well aware of the habits of mechs, even if he had never experienced them himself, slowly, carefully, reached his own white hand to clasp the medic's forearm. 

A smile was shared between them. A vicious one, perhaps, but that was a trait that none would protest against applying to the two mechs. With that grin, Ratchet pulled, and Prowl went willingly to his feet.

.oOo.oOo.oOo.oOo.oOo.

It took a decaorn of work. Ten orns of grueling movement, crashes, and victories. 

Prowl was ready to face Sentinel Prime. 

The massive red mech practically rumbled into the room, his stride an arrogant swagger. “Where is he?” he demanded with a wide grin. 

Prowl resisted the urge to twitch. He was very obviously standing right in the middle of the Med Bay. Not to mention Sentinel had seen his frame before he had been transferred into it. 

“Here, sir,” he said, in as monotone a voice as he could manage. He allowed his golden optics to narrow slightly. 

“PR0.13W.R!” the Prime practically crowed, beaming widely. 

“Prowl, sir.”

Sentinel raised an optical ridge. “'Prowl'?”

“My designation, sir.”

Another wide grin. “Well, welcome to the Autobots, Prowl.”

The former osa once again had to resist flinching.

**Author's Note:**

> The term "osa" is Gatekat's and is used with permission.
> 
> NOTE: Some of you may notice some chapters have been removed; I was rereading and realized that the story was going in a direction I didn't want it to go. I've removed them, and, _hopefully,_ I'll be writing more and re-posting more as time goes on.


End file.
